Honest Addict, Chapter Ten

10

He was staying in the Lyndon Johnson room. A stroke of good fortune, the front desk assistant informed him enthusiastically. As he entered, he immediately realized that it was true. The quarters were a little bit nicer than the Wayne Newton and Gary Cooper rooms, which he had occupied on past visits. It was comfortably appointed and complete with framed news clippings and Life magazines featuring the enigmatic man who had once occupied the White House and – perhaps even more significantly – completely dominated the United States Senate in his prime. LBJ had been a legendary drinker, Peter reminded himself.

The hotel had been a stopping point in the old days for movie stars traveling from Hollywood to Sun Valley, Idaho on vacation. The layout of the public areas, the small rooms and faulty plumbing reflected the advanced age of the place, but it had a ton of charm and was saturated with its own history. And Peter liked it because it felt private: the kind of place he could stay and rest assured that he’d be left alone. But it was more than just the sense of privacy that he enjoyed – there was an intangible element, a heightened sense of self that he experienced whenever he visited. Here in the middle of the high desert, in a town nobody knew, in a hotel that time had forgotten, he felt like he was somehow more significant, as if the isolation and small population created an artificial premium on humanity.

After an hour in the room and a shower that ran from scalding hot to freezing cold several times, he made his way down to the “gambling hall” intent on a few drinks and some gaming. He went first to the bar, deposited a hundred bucks into the video poker machine and ordered a Stolichnaya-tonic, which went down fast and smooth, warming his insides and creating a tingling sensation all over his skin. After three of these his hundred dollars was all used up, so he proceeded to the lone restaurant and enjoyed a medium-rare T bone steak, baked potato and salad accompanied by a terrible house red wine that suited him perfectly. After his meal he lingered over a cigarette that was so satisfying he seriously considered calling it a night right then and there. It was hard to imagine that the evening could get any better than it already was.

And although he was certainly tired enough to turn in, he knew that it would be impossible to end the night without at least a little blackjack. So he ventured further downstairs to the subterranean bunker where the card games were dealt. Fortunately, there was a single game going with only one seated player, a quiet, skinny old timer with a wild head of grey hair. Peter took the first seat and attempted to cash in for a thousand dollars.

“You don’t need that much, buddy,” the dealer said as he saw the stack of large bills.
“You don’t know how much I bet,” Peter retorted.
“Maximum is twenty-five a hand.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. How long’s that been going on?”
“Quite a while. We had card counters came in here a while back – they cleaned us out. Had to drop the maximum.”

At first Peter was floored with disappointment. He had no drugs left and now he couldn’t get the action he wanted on the tables. Two out of his three main vices were being denied him. “Well, if that’s the case,” he began as he pulled half of the money off the table, “I’m going to need a drink ASAP.” The thought that at least booze was available twenty-four hours a day quelled his initial frustration.

“That I can do for you,” the dealer responded, sensing relief in the air.
“Can I play more than one hand?”
“Sure thing.”
Peter put a green chip on four spaces.
The game moved along pleasantly enough. The old man didn’t say much but he was a decent companion. The cocktail waitress came down every fifteen minutes like clockwork. And the dealer, a forty-something character named Gene, kept the game and conversation lively.
“What brought you to Ely, Gene?” Peter inquired.
“DUI.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me right. I was driving home from Salt Lake City to Reno. Shoulda taken the 80 but I had been through this town once before and I liked a little bar on the east side that had one of the prettiest bartenders I’ve ever known. So, like a moron I came south through Provo and hit the 50. It was a spring night – beautiful. I pulled over twice just to look at the stars in the sky.”
“Just get on with the goddamned story,” the old timer interjected, his first words since Peter had arrived at the table. “I’ve heard it a million times.”
“Okay, Joe. There’s no reason to get your panties in a bunch. So anyway, I had half a dozen or so pops at this bar – the woman I had come to see wasn’t even there, it was her night off – and I decided it was time to head out. It must have been two o’clock in the morning. I didn’t get five miles down the highway before I was pulled over. They arrested me and threw me in jail for the night. At that point, I had to stay around for court, which was a couple of weeks later. My intention was just to plead guilty and head back home. But the funny thing was, by the time the two weeks went by I had already lost my job and been evicted from my apartment, where I was four months late on my rent. So in reality I had nothing to go home for. The shit in my apartment wasn’t worth a thing: nothing but raggedy clothing and a soiled mattress.”
“So then what?”
“I plead guilty to driving under the influence. But the judge assigned me all these classes I had to take and there were fines I had to pay off over time, so I just figured it was easier to stay here while I was dealing with the hassle. It only took me a day to get this job and I’ve been at it ever since.”
“How long has it been?”
“Two and a half years.”
Peter was astonished. “But you must have taken care of all the legal requirements by now. You probably could have left town eighteen months ago.”
“That’s about right.”
“So what’s the deal? You must really like living here.”
“Not really.”
“The job pays well?”
“Fair to midland.”
“So how is it you’ve been here for so long?”
“I got a sweet little bungalow I stay in; it’s only two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Not many places in this world you can have a place of your own for two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Besides, I get a break on drinks at the bar after my shift and I can crawl home whenever I want to. It’s not so bad, really. Beats the rat race in Reno.”

The rat race in Reno? Peter had never heard it so described. He was about to say something, but decided it was best not to play the contrarian. “So do you think you’re here to stay, Gene?”
“I doubt it. I’ll probably take off in a year or so. I’m thinking of going to Eastern Washington, Spokane maybe. Who knows? I’ve gotta save up some dough first.”
“Well, with the cheap rent that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“That’s true. On the other hand, I drink, which is working against me a little bit. I guess it’s about a wash in the end.”

Peter understood exactly what he meant.